


All Hallow's Eve

by musicprincess1990



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Halloween, Sexual Content, Sherlolly - Freeform, Smutty, Vamp!lock, Violence, Witch!Lock, thematic elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 14:41:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20996483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musicprincess1990/pseuds/musicprincess1990
Summary: He’s a vampire. She’s a witch. They’ve been avoiding one another for over two hundred years. But a new kind of foe has arrived in modern-day London, which threatens the comfortable, if somewhat lonely existence they have both found. Now, they must join forces to protect their reality. Oh, and the rest of the world, too. Maybe.





	All Hallow's Eve

**Author's Note:**

> @mizjoely presented me with the challenge, “How about a smutty historical Halloween Sherlolly fic?” Sounded good to me! Unfortunately, my ability to write historical fiction is limited to the 19th century. I struggle with every single era outside of the 1800s.
> 
> So… after several failed attempts, I sat down to play the Sims, because I’m hopelessly addicted, and thought about making a Sherlolly household. And, since I love the various supernatural expansion packs, I fully intended to create a vampire Sherlock, and Molly would be a witch (or “spellcaster,” as the game calls them). Then, the first three sentences of the summary popped into my head, and voila! A fic was born. I hope you like the result!
> 
> Disclaimer: I have a keychain of the door at 221B Baker Street. That’s as close as I’ll ever get to owning Sherlock.

** _London, 1810_ **

Bakersfield Hall was shrouded in myth and bathed in mystery. By day, it stood as a tattered shadow of its former glory. By night, a chill settled over the place that had nothing to do with the weather. Even on the stillest of nights, a breeze wafted through its cobweb-strewn halls.

Margaret Alice Hooper stepped cautiously along the corridor of the dilapidated mansion, her right hand closed around a wooden shaft. She hoped she wouldn’t have to use it, but precautions must be taken when dealing with a vampire. She thanked the gods, and her grandmother’s paranoia, that she had been taught how to deal with such a creature. She could only hope _he_ had not been similarly trained on her own kind’s weaknesses.

Another faint hope blossomed within her breast, that she was mistaken. That he wasn’t what he seemed to be. That he was _human_, an ordinary human with a few odd habits. But the evidence was too great for that to be more than a fool’s hope.

Margaret rounded a corner, and at last she saw a low, flickering light spilling out from an open door, casting shadows onto the wall opposite. She slowed her pace, held her breath, and listened. Nothing. No strangled cries, no vicious growling, no sound of someone having the life drunk from their very skin. Her brows puckered, but she continued on her path, stopping only when she had nearly reached the doorway. There, still holding her breath, she waited for the proof she sought.

“You needn’t bother with the theatrics, Miss Hooper,” a familiar voice suddenly called. “I know you are there.”

Her jaw dropped open, and she stepped into the light, gazing into the room. Had she known the sight that awaited her, she might have turned and fled. As it was, her eyes moved from the man seated by the fire… to the second man on the floor… to the blood staining the second man’s cravat… to the matching blood on the first man’s handkerchief… which he dabbed along the corners of his full lips.

“I knew it,” she whispered.

“Yes, it seems you did,” he answered, standing gracefully and depositing his handkerchief on a nearby table. “I must begrudgingly commend you, Miss Hooper. Three hundred years of roaming this godforsaken planet, and no other mortal has figured it out. Well,” he added with a slight wag of his head, “not before it was entirely too late.”

Margaret’s stomach churned. “You monster.”

He stilled for a moment, then clasped his hands behind his back in an affable gesture. “Now, now, Miss Hooper,” he began in a whisper that would have seemed condescending if it weren’t also terrifying. “Manners must be observed.”

“Manners be damned!” she cried, brandishing the stake she had almost forgotten. His eyes flitted to the offending object, and she caught the briefest flash of fear. “Mr. Holmes, you have killed innocent people.”

“‘Innocent’?” he scoffed, then gestured to the dead man at his feet. “This man has been raping unsuspecting women of work, then slitting their throats to ensure their silence.”

Her heart stopped. “Then… all those murders…”

“Were not my doing,” he finished for her. “I cannot claim to be a saint, Miss Hooper, but I do in fact have a conscience, however slight. I have never preyed upon the innocent. Only the guilty.”

Margaret stared at him, her anger slowly dissolving, leaving only fear behind. Perhaps he made a point of hunting the darker side of society, but she now knew his secret, the truth of what he was. She was a danger to him, and therefore her innocence was forfeit. The stake in her hand offered little reassurance; he was larger, stronger, and faster. It would take moments for him to complete the task.

And yet… he had made no efforts to do so. He stood perfectly still, watching her as she watched him. Waiting.

Finally, he spoke. “I am not going to kill you, Miss Hooper.”

She blinked twice. “Pardon me?”

His lips curled into a wicked smirk. “I am not going to kill you,” he repeated, slowly moving toward her.

Her fingers tightened around her weapon as she fixed him with a stare. “Why not?”

“Because,” he murmured, his voice trailing off into a (rather dramatic) pause. He then bent his head to whisper conspiratorially, “I know what you are.”

Margaret staggered backward, her eyes wide. “I-I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Come now, Miss Hooper,” he drawled, quirking an imperious brow. “Do try to remember to whom you are speaking. Did I not prove, within moments of our acquaintance, that I am able to discern nearly every detail of a person’s life at a glance?”

Her face flamed as the memory resurfaced. They had met at Almack’s, her uncle introducing him as the son of a dear friend from his days at Cambridge (which, she now mused, was quite obviously a lie, though she knew not whether her uncle had deceived or _been_ deceived). His icy gaze had traveled over her, head to toe, and in the next moment, he had pronounced her “silly and ignorant, with a tendency to dream above her station.” He then guessed—correctly—that she was the only daughter of a local physician and a former lady’s maid, and with her plainness and timid nature, she would be better served in a position of employment, rather than among those joining the marriage mart.

Oh, how his words stung even now! Margaret knew she was no great beauty, nor did she possess the quick wit and natural grace of other young ladies of the _ton_. But to have these defects so cruelly displayed by a perfect stranger… well, she had not liked Mr. Sherlock Holmes from that moment onward. When she began to notice his peculiarities, which gave way to suspicions, she had delighted in the idea of exposing his secret.

How poetically unjust that he should also uncover _hers_.

Heaving a sigh, she at last lowered her hand, though maintaining a firm grip on the sole weapon in her possession. “You win, Mr. Holmes,” she said resignedly.

The infuriating smirk returned. “Rather obvious, Miss Hooper.”

Her anger flared at his impudence. “Before you crow too loud in victory, Mr. Holmes, kindly remember that I still carry my weapon. And have others besides,” she added in a deadly whisper, “unseen weapons far beyond any you could possibly imagine.”

Again, she caught a flicker of fear in his eyes, and a muscle in his jaw twitched. Fury quickly replaced the fear, and her hands trembled. “You will be exposed,” he matched her icy tone. “Even If you are not tried and hanged for practicing witchcraft, you will have to uproot and live your life in secrecy and shadow.”

“I am already doomed to such a life,” she snapped, “as the result of a poor attempt at an immortality potion.”

Clearly, he had not expected that. “You are immortal?”

“In a sense,” she answered briskly, her eyes down-turned. “I will age and die, but within moments of my death, I will be revived as a young woman.”

If Margaret did not know better, she could almost swear she saw pity in his gaze. But before she could verify its appearance, it had vanished, and was replaced with the same haughty expression she had seen at their first meeting. “Well, perhaps now you have learned not to make such foolhardy attempts in the future.”

She glared with such unexpected ferocity, he inched ever so slightly away from her. “_I_ did not make the potion, Mr. Holmes.”

“Indeed?” His eyes roved over her face, and she was struck with the idea that he was searching for the potioneer’s identity. Unwilling to bring that particular memory to light, she schooled her features and maintained her glowering expression. After a few moments, he seemed to give up the search, and his disdain returned. “It matters not. However, as we are both cursed with an endless existence, unless one of us kills the other, might I suggest a compromise?”

Margaret’s brow furrowed. “Compromise?”

“Compromise,” he repeated with a nod. “I propose we speak nothing of this night. I will attend to the…” he swiveled at the waist to glance at the body still lying prone on the floor, “…ahem, the _collateral damage_, and we will both return to our beds and continue on. In a matter of months, I shall leave London, unlikely to return for some time, a few decades at the least.” He fixed her with a stare. “I will not reveal your secret, and you will not disclose mine. We shall continue on our separate ways, for however long we are doomed to remain on this earth.”

She considered him, and his proposal, for several long moments. To own the truth, she was still half tempted to bury the stake in his heart and laugh at the utter shock that would mar his pale, chiseled, too-handsome face. But he made an excellent point: she would be exposed. If she were fortunate, she would escape before being hanged, and flee the country, perhaps sailing to the former colonies, and take on a new name and identity.

However, should she accept, she would be able to lead a somewhat normal life, until she reached such an age that death would soon take her, and lead to her mysterious resurrection. But in that time, perhaps she might find a way to rid herself of her curse. Her hopes for such an outcome were small, but any hopes, no matter their size, were difficult to forsake.

“Very well, Mr. Holmes,” she held out a hand toward him. His eyes widened as he took her hand in his, and she gave a brief, firm shake. “We are agreed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Well? What are your thoughts? Chapter 2 is on its way! With a bit of luck, and an insane amount of discipline and concentration, I might just finish this by Halloween. Fingers crossed!


End file.
